Uncharted III : Drake's Passage

The Drake Passage is the only unbroken stretch of ocean in the world. With no continental obstacles in its path, the several hundred nautical miles making up the gap between Argentina and Antarctica are the roughest, swelliest, frothiest seas around. If swallowing boats were a competitive sport, the Drake would dominate the league, likely forcing a collective bargaining agreement that would end up sending our best oceans to the wealthiest continents. And trust me, nobody wants to see the Drake Passage take on the Ural Sea. Where is the sport in that?

The word "seaworthy" sounds suspiciously like a plea to Poseidon if I ever heard one but we were assured of our vessel's status as such, despite its recent misadventures.  Most of you have likely heard of the Clellia II, though you might not realize it. It was only a month ago that the now infamous vessel was front page news, victim of a vicious storm that hit the Drake with little warning. Pounded by 30-foot seas, the window of the captain's bridge was smashed, knocking out their communications and forcing the crew to sit in the eye of the storm for two days. Most terrifying of all, they were disastrously flooded by a phalanx of international reporters once reaching port.

To be fair, they aren't very subtle when it comes to expectations. There were several signs that our voyage might not be a smooth one, first and foremost being the strategic placement of barf bags along most of the ship's interior railings. The second clue would be the necessity of interior railings. Third would be the directive to make our cabins "Drake Proof" prior to departure. All personal items were to be secured, valuables stowed, and it was suggested that we consider sleeping on the floor to avoid rolling out of bed during large swells. This proved unnecessary though, since the beds had convenient straps to keep you comfortably immobile throughout the duration of the trip.

It would take us a minimum of two days to cross this oft violent stretch of water, and at least another three to unclench our bowels. I generally think of myself as having a solid pair of sea legs, having spent a good deal of my youth aboard my parents boat, but I would be lying if I didn't claim a modest amount of anxiety. We departed in the early evening, as scheduled. For the first few hours we drifted peacefully through the Beagle Channel. Terns and gulls soared gracefully past the bow, swooping starboard and port, shepherding us far beyond the harbor and into the open sea. The waves began to pick up almost immediately. Fifteen foot swells rocked the boat, sending passengers, myself included, from wall to wall. After a few hours I found the rhythm almost soothing. One more day until landfall. Rock-a-bye Baby, indeed.